


An Anointing of Sorts

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: Hell, Paved with Priests' Skulls [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, copious amounts of blasphemy abound, monastery AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is shaken and he tries to hide it. This is unfamiliar, that coil of tenderness secreted away in Enjolras’s words--though they were bestowed stiffly--and far more terrifying than coldness or rigidity or arguments or any of the damning touches they have exchanged. He wants to bring them back to familiarity, perhaps with a barb of some sort, but something else spills out instead. “You may give me Extreme Unction, now, if you wish it. Brother Joly claims I am still ill, after all. Perhaps my body is wanting of God’s forgiveness yet.”</p>
<p>Neither of them hear the innuendo in the low of his voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Anointing of Sorts

The smell of smoke is finally what awakens him. It’s an endless cloud, invisible from the stone, windowless walls of the infirmary, but the reek has begun to permeate everything. Fire and corpses, and before Grantaire can force his eyelids open, he is nearly certain he has found himself in hell at last. There are demons churning inside of him, aching to rip him to shreds with their claws and to run free—now that he is in hell they might finally do so, and he is loathe to watch his own destruction.

There’s a shuffling sound, and a cool hand on his forehead.

Grantaire opens his eyes, while the shock of light—only a few candles--is enough to send a searing through the pounding in his head. He would throw an arm over his face, but his limbs are too heavy to move them completely on his own.

“You’re _very_ lucky,” Brother Combeferre says in a soft voice. “Your fever is finally fading, and no new tumors have grown since the second day of it. God is truly merciful.”

He wants to shrink beneath the blanket as Combeferre’s hands continue to explore his body, first prodding under his arm and then rubbing at what is only a slight swelling on his neck. Like Adam, ashamed of his nakedness, even if the monastery—for it is not hell, not yet, he realizes—is no Eden. He chews his lip in discomfort, but it is the only movement he can manage. Dry, cracked lips, and he can taste the sharpness of blood on his tongue, like a knife. He tastes his _life_ , and it is not sweet.

“This spot should disappear soon, as well,” Combeferre assures him. “Would you like some wine? Water is scarcer, but fluids should help you along before you can eat again.”

Grantaire tries to speak, but the words get caught somewhere in the phlegm that is at the back of his throat, so he settles for the slightest nod that he can produce.

“Wine then,” Combeferre says, though he pauses in the doorway. “Brother Enjolras will be back to tend to you, although Brother Joly is forcing him to take some small amount of bed rest. He refuses to allow another one of our number to take sick due to ill health.” The words are gentle but pointed, but Grantaire already feels too much a gaping wound to discern the sting. There is a flicker in his mind at the sound of Enjolras’s name, thoughts that he would pursue further and to an end, but he is still so _tired_ , too tired, and his flesh and bones will not halt in their aching.

“We shall keep everyone else out, for now, though our brothers will rejoice with thanks for your improving health. Not everyone is spared from plague, Brother Grantaire.” He makes the sign of the cross. “Thanks be to God.”

When he is left alone, Grantaire strains for a small cough, and tries the words himself. “Thanks be to God,” in a hoarse whisper. 

Coming from his own lips, he knows that the words are a lie. 

…..

Grantaire’s recovery is slow and unsteady, but it is a recovery nonetheless. Combeferre had promised Enjolras would tend to him, and Combeferre is not a liar—but Enjolras does not come. Grantaire is unsurprised. Half of the village is burning, and so there is more important work to be done than to help a damned monk cling fast to something when his own fingers cannot even find purchase themselves. The fear of contagion has passed, so Joly comes to feed him spoonfuls of lukewarm broth, until the stink in the air makes him retch again. Wine he can keep down, but never enough as he would like to, to slip into a dreamless doze and find a few hours of peace.

Half of the village is burning, and Grantaire tries to feel lucky and blessed by God that his corpse too has not been thrown onto the heap with all of the others.

His brothers are all spared, and he is grateful for that, he supposes, so he thanks the God that does not hear him, just in case he does, this time. It is one of the few prayers he’s truly meant.

No one else is supposed to come and see him, he needs his rest, both Combeferre and Joly insist, but Brother Jehan slips him books for his boredom, though his hands itch for the feeling of a paintbrush and golden curls. His hands still tremble too much for working on the manuscripts, for now, and he has not seen those golden curls in a fortnight at least. It would be nice to _see_ him, that is all, no speech or touch, but to ascertain _something important_ still exists in the mire of death that Grantaire cannot help but feel surrounded by, even when surrounded by thick, safe walls. It’s the smell of it that will not go away, even when Joly assures him that his sores are putrid no longer, and their swelling has disappeared entirely.

Now that he can keep down small amounts of food without vomiting, Combeferre helps him into a soft nightshirt that he can reliably keep clean, save for an occasional few droplets of wine down the front. His own tunic, cowl, and scapular had been burned, but he prefers the nightshirt to naught but a blanket.

He still spends his days and nights in the infirmary bed, though once he has the strength to sit up on his own, the Abbot begins to bring him the Eucharist after each day’s Mass. Grantaire takes it obediently, though he declines the Abbot’s offer to hear his confession, too. The Abbot only smiles kindly and pats his hand with a murmured _God bless you, Brother Grantaire_ before taking his leave each night.

One evening, the Abbot does not come. Grantaire can only measure his days in candlelight, and his candle for reading has shrunk to a stub and sputtered out, and he’s left alone in the dark. He can stand, by now, probably walk, too, if Joly would give him the opportunity, so he is half out of bed—though he is unsure what _for_ —when the door opens, and Enjolras steps into the room.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, and there is that harshness that Grantaire missed. Everyone else speaks to him in soft, sickbed voices, although he rather prefers this. He sets down a candle beside the bed, and with an uninvited arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, hauls him back against the pillow. “Brother Joly has told me you are meant to stay in bed awhile longer.”

Grantaire snorts, but allows Enjolras to move him. His health is returning quickly, but he hasn’t the strength yet to fight back. “I am near recovered, and only in search of a candle,” he insists.

(He has missed this, Enjolras chiding him for one thing or another, while Grantaire argues simply because he can. The familiarity is a comfort he could bury himself in and never emerge from, if his angel would allow it.

_He knows he will not_.)

“I would not have you take ill again with this foolishness,” Enjolras says. “Here is your candle. How are you?”

“Better every day.” And it’s true enough, Grantaire thinks. “I have wondered when the holy Brother Enjolras might finally grace me with his presence.” An uncomfortable pause, and then, “I thought you might not at all, truthfully. After you had nursed me through the worst of it.”

“It was difficult. I needed rest, and then the village had need of me.” Enjolras does not look Grantaire in the eye, gaze fixed to a spot on the wall above his head, and Grantaire is not deterred. He continues to watch Enjolras with relentless wide eyes, and they do not speak for another few moments.

“Why have you come to see me now? You have no treatises to write the Bishop on simony or lay investiture to call you to them?” Grantaire asks, trying to keep his voice light, to tease.

Enjolras glares, then shakes his head. “I am only weary, Grantaire.” And Grantaire can see it in the slump of his shoulders, and he almost sounds defeated. He might even believe it so, were he not _Enjolras_ , and therefore some sort of invincible force of nature, beloved of God. “There were too many infected, and too many died. I fear that there were not enough of us to bestow the sacrament, before the plague took them.”

Uncertainly, Grantaire asks him, “Did you give me the final sacrament, when I was in the worst of it?”

Enjolras hesitates, before, “No. At first I thought you might die before I did--to spite me--you would, I think.” His lips curve upwards, weakly, but Grantaire think it may the closest thing he has ever seen to a true smile on Enjolras’s face. “But then I should have, and I did not. I feared that you would stop fighting, then, if even I had seemed to have given up on you.”

( _You believe in nothing._

_I believe in you._

Was there the slightest chance that Enjolras had some small amount of belief in Grantaire, too?)

Grantaire is shaken and he tries to hide it. This is unfamiliar, that coil of tenderness secreted away in Enjolras’s words--though they were bestowed stiffly--and far more terrifying than coldness or rigidity or arguments or any of the damning touches they have exchanged. He wants to bring them back to familiarity, perhaps with a barb of some sort, but something else spills out instead. “You may give me Extreme Unction, now, if you wish it. Brother Joly claims I am still ill, after all. Perhaps my body is wanting of God’s forgiveness yet.”

Neither of them hear the innuendo in the low of his voice.

The other man purses his lips and raises his eyebrows. “Asking for a sacrament? That is unlike you.”

He only shrugs. There is heat building in Enjolras’s gaze, and Grantaire wonders not for the first time how they have managed this, how _he_ has managed this, and why does Enjolras do nothing to stop it?

Instead his eyes darken with intent, and he moves a step closer.

Grantaire shifts in bed, as he feels himself begin to grow hard almost entirely against his will. He wishes he wanted to stop this, or knew how to. He would not corrupt Enjolras further, and yet here they are, and he almost jump when Enjolras sits on the edge of the bed.

“I know what sins your body needs forgiveness for,” Enjolras says, in a shaking voice, because as many times as they have clashed together, it has never felt so intentional as it does now, and he takes a deep breath before he begins. “ Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy may the Lord pardon you whatever sins or faults you have committed by sight.”

His hand ghosts upwards, and Grantaire closes his eyes, while Enjolras brushes his fingertips across his eyelids. They are cold, and Grantaire feels warm, too warm, and his neck cranes forward for more as Enjolras’s hand falls away.

“By hearing.”

Grantaire keeps his eyes closed, feels as Enjolras cups his chin in his hands and the mattress shifts as he leans forward. The tendrils of tenderness begin to dissipate as Enjolras tugs at Grantaire’s ear with his teeth, swipes his tongue along his ear lobe. Grantaire would moan, if he were not so afraid to break this spell with unnecessary noise.

“Smell.”

Their noses brush.

Warm breath on Grantaire’s lips. 

It’s only an exhale: “Taste.”

Then their lips press together, hungrily, and Grantaire moans now, into Enjolras’s mouth as their tongues slide together and Enjolras bites lightly at his bottom lip. Enjolras is the one to finally break the kiss, and their foreheads are against one another, as they each breathe each other’s breath, panting for air.

Grantaire has witnessed Extreme Unction before, and he knows what comes next. With his feet, he begins to kick off the blanket that he’s been clinging to for days, and Enjolras reaches up to touch his clothed chest, running his fingers across the fabric, up to small circle of skin along Grantaire’s collarbone and neck. 

“Touch,” Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire cannot keep his eyes off him, now, and the captivated expression he wears, attention taken up entirely by _Grantaire_ , and why him of all people.

Fingers reach the healing scab where neck meets shoulder, and Grantaire winces, then tries to turn it into a self-deprecating laugh. “I am going to have an ugly scar there.”

( _You are beautiful_ Enjolras does not say, not that Grantaire had hoped he would, not at all.)

A brush of lips and teeth in the hollow of his throat is the only response he gets, and Grantaire contents himself with tangling his own fingers into Enjolras’s hair.

Enjolras is the one to pull away, again--he will continue with his sacrament, it seems, despite how they are each driving the other to distraction.

“Walking.”

Hands at the hem of Grantaire’s nightshirt, taunting upwards along calves and knees and thighs, pulling the nightshirt with them until it is up around his hips. He wants to raise his arms and throw the garment to the floor, but Enjolras has paused here, and Grantaire lets him. 

Enjolras is _studying_ him now, and Grantaire feels his cheeks begin to flush. Of all the times they’ve been together, Enjolras’s unyielding gaze on his upright cock should not embarrass him so intensely--but it does, and he fights the urge to pull his nightshirt back down and over him.

The words that come next sound like _sin_ as they drip from Enjolras’s red lips.

“Carnal delectation.”

A hand comes down over Grantaire’s cock--Enjolras’s hand is warm now, hot even--and Grantaire’s back arches into the sweetness of it. His thumb traces around the head of it--over the slit and Grantaire gasps.

Enjolras teases for some time, with only fingertips and slight touches, listening hard to Grantaire’s every minute sound, until he’s _whimpering_.

When he wraps his hand around him, a long, drawn-out groan tears itself from Grantaire’s throat, and his hips buck upwards into Enjolras’s grasp until Enjolras begins to move his hand, up and down and back up again.

“Please, Enjolras--I would have you--”

Enjolras grits his teeth to bite back a resounding _yes_ , and struggles to shake his head. “You are not well yet. I would not overexert you.”

Grantaire murmurs his name and then gasps it aloud, over and over again like a desperate prayer, and maybe it is one, and his back continues to arch and his hands scrabble first to fist themselves into the blanket but the blanket has been thrown to the floor

he grabs hard onto Enjolras instead, fingers digging into shoulders and he’s writhing against the bed and into Enjolras’s hand

pulls him close, want his mouth back on his to smother his cry when he comes and Enjolras’s hand keeps moving in a relentless rhythmn.

Grantaire pulls him so hard their teeth clack together, and it might be painful but it isn’t, and he thrusts upwards one final time--

Enjolras swallows Grantaire’s cry of his name as he paints the nightshirt with his release, and there’s a droplet on Enjolras’s jaw, too, that he doesn’t wipe away.

Grantaire’s eyes are closed, and they stay closed. He does not need to watch Enjolras leave again, leave them to wallow alone in their own depravity. Enjolras will scamper off to confession, as he always does, and Grantaire will have nightmares of hell.

Except this time, Enjolras does not leave. He pulls Grantaire’s nightshirt back around his ankles, carefully, as if Grantaire is asleep and he fears to wake him. He grazes a hand through the unruly knot of Grantaire’s hair, and a sigh escapes him.

But he will not open his eyes--just in case it isn’t real.


End file.
